


Love in My Own Way

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Character, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Declarations Of Love, Falling In Love, Fluff, Light Angst, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 00:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: Crowley is aromantic and worried that he doesn't love Aziraphale.





	Love in My Own Way

Crowley hadn’t eaten for three weeks. This was not unusual. What was unusual was that Crowley hadn’t drank anything for three weeks either.

Immortal beings, be they occult or ethereal, do not need to eat or drink. Crowley especially was very good at ignoring the instincts of his human body, able to fight off feelings of hunger simply by yelling at his stomach the same way he yelled at his plants. He’d put the fear of Crowley into that particular organ, and it was very good at following orders. So, no, Crowley wasn’t hungry unless he wanted to be. (Never mind that, like the serpent that was an integral part of his nature even now, he eat rather a lot of food when he put his mind to it…) Drinking, however…

Drinking had always been his vice, ever since he’d first tasted wine in Greece. He liked the way it sat heavily on his tongue, how it made him feel loose and relaxed, how it made him sleepy, how it sloshed in his otherwise empty stomach when he drank enough of it. Basically, a Crowley who is not drinking should ring as many bells as an Aziraphale who is not eating. It means that the demon has something on his mind. Something that cannot be fixed with an indulgence in his favorite form of gluttony.

The problem was that Crowley was not in love.

Ever since the body swap, Crowley had been mulling over this deep point of contention between the two of them. He and Aziraphale had been on Earth together for so long that even their first meeting had felt downright cordial. He was almost certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Aziraphale loved him. Not in the distant, angel way for which he was made; to love all things equally, of Heaven and Earth and beyond. No, in the very silly, very human, completely and utterly romantic way. And Crowley…did not. In fact, he was fairly certain he never had. Probably not even as an angel, though his memories of that time were more like dreams; strange vignettes that seemed to be tinted with sepia. 

He had felt flashes of attraction throughout the years, though he never had desires to act upon them. Most of them were related to Aziraphale, so he knew he was drawn to the angel in that way. He had always found the angel’s body to be attractive; it was his body type that had only recently come into fashion (and then, not very for most men). Aziraphale’s body had been attractive throughout the ages, its soft, supple curves and firm, rounded belly were symbols of plenty and fertility. But he was deceptively strong, too, in all the ways an angel ought to be, and in many ways most angels weren’t. Crowley had always liked that about the angel. 

And, even better, he liked Aziraphale’s mind. Aziraphale was clever. He could hold onto information, storing it away in his massive filing system of a brain for use later on. Aziraphale could speak multiple languages, even ones that no longer existed outside of written histories eons old. He could read long-forgotten texts with ease, and who needed The Library of Alexandria when one had Aziraphale, who remembered nearly every page of every book written there. And then, he knew all about food. The best places to dine in London, the best wines to drink, the best desserts to pair with coffee. How he kept all that information in his head without getting constant migraines was…incredible, to say the least. It made Crowley’s mouth water figuratively when the angel went on a long tangent about the use of Ancient Greek in today’s textbooks. Delightful.

And Crowley was incredibly and irrevocably fond of the angel. He would do anything, go anywhere with him. He trusted him wholly and completely, and he would always be with Aziraphale to help him get out of the trouble that he innocently walked right into like a mouse cleaning the whiskers of a lion. He was dedicated, as bound to the angel as he’d once been bound to Hell. And he loved spending intimate moments with Aziraphale, too. Drinking for hours in the bookshop, hands brushing innocently while reaching for the salt, shoulder to shoulder on park benches, feeding the ducks elbow to elbow, walking arm in arm like they did in the Victorian era when that sort of gesture was more friendly than indicative of a further relationship.

But the spark that humans described, that moment of knowing love, was notably absent. 

And Crowley hated himself for it. Hated himself because he must be taking advantage of Aziraphale, then, mustn’t he? Tempting him to love a being who cannot return it. Leading him on, when the depths of his feelings do not go as deep as the angel’s. He must truly be a wicked thing, to be deprived of this love, even in a human body. Devoid of feeling for the one he should love more than anything in the world, and…

“Crowley dear?”

Crowley paused in his pacing, lifting his head in question, thankful his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses. He couldn’t be certain, but he was almost sure he was crying. Or trying to. His eyes were watery, and a few tears had escaped already, and his chest was tight, just on the edge of a desperate sob.

“Are you quite all right?” There his angel stood, the picture of perfection, a few of his precious books stacked carefully in his arms. He had dust on his lapels, and dust floated around his curls like a halo. 

Crowley smiled. Beautiful. And yet, still, there was no spark. He did not love Aziraphale. His face fell again.

Aziraphale seemed to take notice of this, for he set his books down on his desk with a soft oomph and came to Crowley’s side, taking his hand. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

Crowley eyed the offending wine glass sitting on the end table. He meant to say that he wasn’t thirsty, that he was far too drunk already, that he was fine, angel, really…but what came out instead was, “Ngk.”

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “Come. Sit. Tell me what’s troubling you.” He took Crowley’s hand, leading him to the sofa. Where they touched made him tingle with pins and needles, but no spark suddenly came alight. How could he possibly tell his angel that he didn’t love him? After all they had been through together? It didn’t seem fair. It seemed cruel. Just another of the Almighty’s jokes.

Crowley clasped his hands together and stared at them. “I…” he sighed. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Aziraphale’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “My dear, we have an eternity. Take your time. I will be here beside you.”

Crowley bit back a sob. Yeah, he thought, that’s the problem. After a long moment of silence, he closed his eyes. “You’re going to hate me.”

Aziraphale gasped in a way that would be comedic if done by other people. It was the kind of drama one could only expect from Aziraphale. “My dear, I could never.”

Yeah, because the opposite is obvious, Crowley thought bitterly. He took a deep breath and decided that this was his punishment, that he could never be truly happy in the way that most people expected him to, and that the sooner this was over with, the sooner they could go back to acting like acquaintances. 

Like they both didn’t know each other’s quirks, their likes and dislikes, what the other looked like when smug or hurt or happy. Like they’d only just met on a garden wall thousands of years ago.

Crowley hadn’t meant to start crying, but his voice began to waiver, and then more tears came, and then… “I don’t love you.”

Aziraphale, who had immediately drew Crowley close with soothing words, froze, stopping the soft circular massage of his hand, and Crowley thought, oh no, this is it, and prepared for the worst.

“What do you mean, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice careful, as if he was thoughtfully tasting every letter in those words.

It hurt even more than it already did for him to have to explain it, but he owed his angel that much, at least. “There’s no spark,” he mumbled. “When you look at me, I can see that you love me. Your eyes go soft and you get this certain smile…” He pulled away from Aziraphale, furiously wiping his eyes underneath his glasses. “I don’t feel that for you, Aziraphale. I never have. I don’t love you.”

The bookshop was quiet for several minutes, the air still between them, barely daring to twirl the dust around. Then, Aziraphale reached up and took Crowley’s sunglasses off. “My dear,” he said gently, facing the golden serpentine orbs without fear, “you do love me. You’ve proven it to me time and time again over the centuries.”

“There’s no spark,” Crowley repeated. His heart fluttered anyway hopefully. It was a traitor. It refused to obey him no matter how much he threatened it. Even his stomach seemed to follow the heart’s lead, swirling with anxiety and nerves. He swore he was going to cut it out of him and thumbtack it to the wall, self-assured bastard that it was. That’d teach it.

Aziraphale reached up to cup his cheek. Crowley startled away from it, but Aziraphale patiently waited, and then the demon lay his cheek on the angel’s soft palm once more. “There doesn’t have to be a spark for love to bloom,” Aziraphale replied softly, his eyes bright and shining, beautiful. “Romantic love is but one kind of love. If you are aromantic, that’s okay. That’s tickety-boo.” He grinned, and Crowley chuckled, closing his eyes. “I know you love me,” Aziraphale went on. “And I will be whatever you need from me, Crowley, traditional coupling aside.”

Crowley’s head spun. He really didn’t want to give that too much thought at present. His body had had no fuel for nearly a month, and he was losing steam quickly. “So…” He searched Aziraphale’s eyes, barely daring to be brave, “when I saved you from the Nazis…I can…call that “love”?”

Aziraphale chuckled. A beautiful sound. “Yes. Of course you can.”

“Even without a spark?”

“Even without a spark.”

“Can I kiss you?” Crowley blurted. “Can I still call it love if…?”

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale commanded.

And, really, who was Crowley to disobey?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aromantic, yet I like romantic gestures, and I would consider myself "in love" with my partner, even though there's no "spark." I've had people tell me it's wrong, that I'm leading on my partner. But he knows that I'm aromantic. And you know what? It's never mattered. 
> 
> Love is love, romantic or not. So, that's what this fic is about. Hope you like it!


End file.
